


China Dishes

by VarjoRuusu



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Between Seasons 2 and 3, Comfort of Sorts, Discussions of past Injuries, First Kiss, M/M, Post injury, Pre-Slash, Rambling, Rather badly, Self Loathing, Some dishes get abused, i guess?, really bad summery, really bad tags, tiny amounts of fluff?, writing at 3am on no sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-23 18:30:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11408091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VarjoRuusu/pseuds/VarjoRuusu
Summary: After losing his leg, John is despondent and angry. A box full of China dishes gets abused, he and Flint talk.A good amount of introspection inside John's head, vague mentions of an invented past.





	China Dishes

**Author's Note:**

> Written at 3:30 am, in about...20 minutes? Read through once, no beta. No brain function either so I apologize if it's super super weird? Anyway. Small amounts of fluff at the end. Enjoy.

John had suffered before, his life had been marked by suffering. As a child his parents were taken from him and he was thrown in a boys home, where the others had picked on him night and day for anything they could think of. His hair, his teeth, his skin, his voice, his eyes, his height, his weight, his existence. He'd run away by the time he was twelve.

Life on the streets hadn't been any easier, sleeping in the gutter, learning to pick pockets, getting ribs broken, black eyes, once a snapped wrist for his trouble. He'd always managed to get away until finally, when he was seventeen, he was caught for good, thrown in with the Navy and shipped out to the America's. The other's on the ship his age had been pressed into service in much the same way, but they still picked on him because he was unusual, the way he spoke, the way he looked, the way he walked. Nothing was too insignificant and he'd gotten in his share of fights and even a few more broken bones while he was at sea.

Finding Flint's crew, and some damned equality, had been the first time in his life that John could remember everything not being complete and utter shit. Even if Flint wanted to kill him most days, and maroon him on others, if he was in an exceptionally good mood. He still had a place with this crew. He still mattered.

Now, John sat against the window of the Spanish Man o'War and stared at the blanket covering his legs, his hands curled into fists, wishing he had something to throw. The water picture was out of reach and he'd already hurled his cup against the wall. He could have gone and gotten it when he got thirsty several minutes later, but he didn't want to move the blanket. He didn't want to reach for the crutch. He didn't want to face his new reality.

Flint, surprisingly, had been taking care of him since it happened, or as much as John would let him. He suspected Flint had sat through the first days when his fever was so high he was delirious, but he had no proof. His only evidence was that Flint had been there when he'd woken and the captain hadn't been absent much since. Today was an oddity, him alone in the cabin for several hours, but he supposed that there were things up on deck to attend to.

He'd tried to get Flint to leave him along for weeks, but the man had insisted on being there, on helping his change the bandages on his mangled leg, forcing John to eat and drink, and John was sick of it. He wanted to hurl the entirety of Flint's bookshelf at him the next time he entered the cabin. Even as he thought of it, the door creaked on it's hinges and none other than Flint himself appeared.

“How are you?” Flint asked, his voice even, not showing worry or concern, but then why would he have asked if he wasn't concerned?

“What the fuck do you care?” John grumbled, turing away to look out the window at the sea. Maybe it would be easiest if he just smashed the glass out and jumped into the sea. At night, when no one would notice and drag him back out before he drowned.

Flint was silent, taking in John's posture and tone, then the cup lying dented against the wall. He raised an eyebrow, then turned and left. John glared at the door after him, hoping he'd stay gone. Ten minutes later he was back though, carrying a crate, which he deposited by the window seat before pulling the lid off.

“We took this off the last ship,” he explained. “I was going to keep them for...something. But there's really no need.”

Once more he turned and left the room, leaving John staring at a crate full of china dishes, plates, bowls, teacups, saucers. He glanced at the door, his mouth open, before he reached for the first cup, turning it over in his hands as he let his anger boil, and threw it. It hit the wall with a resounding crash, the sound like music to his ears and he threw another and another until he was laughing, letting all his frustrations out smashing the china into smithereens.

He didn't noticed Flint return and lean against the door, his arms crossed, too busy throwing the plates one after another. He'd managed to stand on his good leg, leaning heavily on the beam next to his left side as he plucked the dishes from the crate and threw them with as much force as he could. When the last dish was gone he sagged against the beam, breathing heavily, closing his eyes and doing his best to let go of all the anger and resentment. His life had always hurt, always been just this side of horrible, but at least he'd been whole. At least he could run. At least he could fight.

“Better?” Flint's voice asked from behind him and John didn't have the strength left to be surprised. He just nodded, leaning back toward the bench and reaching for it as he tried to get back to his bed. He didn't even have the energy to protest when Flint's hands appeared and helped resettle him, vanishing and returning a moment later with the dented cup, an un-dented cup, and a bottle of rum.

“Thank you,” John muttered after he'd drained the cup. “I...not being able to move is...”

“I know,” Flint said, staring into his own cup. “When I was...nineteen, maybe, there was a skirmish on the ship I was posted to. You probably wouldn't believe, a canon fell on me. The doctor said I had broken or cracked nearly every rib, I was in bed for weeks once they got me back to London. Let me tell you, on a ship with that many broken ribs and nothing but a hammock to lie in...even when I was back in my own home, it was...it must have been four or five months before I even felt like I could breath again. I was just lucky nothing internal was damaged.”

“You're rather spry for a man who's broken all his ribs at once,” John chuckled as Flint refilled his cup.

“You don't believe me,” Flint said, tilting his head. John smiled into his rum, shaking his head.

Flint rolled his eyes and stood, letting his coat roll off his shoulders and tossing it on the desk before pulling his shirt up and dropping it on top of the coat. “Here,” he muttered, grabbing John's hand and guiding his fingers to the left side of his chest. “Most of them never healed quite right.”

John bit the inside of his lip as he ran his fingers along Flint's ribs, feeling a bump here and there, the telltale signs of re-knitted bone. He trailed his fingers up and down, from the left around to the right and found something on nearly every rib, just like Flint had said.

“Fuck, how did you survive?” he asked quietly, fingers trailing down Flint's sternum, which had a small ridge right down the center. None of it was visible, but you could feel how the bones had grown back together under the skin easily enough. The damage had been massive and honestly should have killed him.

“The same way you're going to survive this,” Flint said, gently resting a hand on John's knee, just above the wound. “By not letting it destroy you.”

“I'm not that strong,” John muttered, eyes locked in the center of Flint's chest, unwilling to meet his eyes.

“You're stronger than you think,” Flint assured him. “Believe me, no one underestimates you more than you underestimate yourself.”

“Again, I'm forced to ask, why the fuck do you care?” John asked bitterly, resolutely ignoring the tears forming in his eyes. Under his hand Flint drew a deep breath and sighed. His right hand reached out and his fingers gripped John's chin, tilting his face up so their eyes met.

“Because you cared about your men enough to put yourself in harms way for them. I hadn't realized how dedicated you'd become to this crew, and I don't think you had either.”

John scoffed, desperately wanting to turn away, to ignore the feeling that having Flint's heartbeat under his hand was causing. He didn't want to see the pity in those green eyes, but strangely enough, when he looked, he didn't see pity. He saw admiration, and it took his breath away.

“You're probably the first person in this world who's ever accused me of being a good man,” he said quietly, one treacherous tear falling down his face. Flint's thumb caught it and wiped it away.

“Don't get used to it, I may very well be the last,” Flint chuckled. “A long time ago I knew a man who was nothing but pure goodness, and that taught me how to see the good in people even when they bury it deep under the surface.”

John scoffed, shaking his head. “I realize it now, under all that bite and reputation, you're just...”

“What?” Flint asked when John trailed off, raising his eyebrows.

“You're a fucking poet,” John said, meeting Flint's eye, his hand flattening against Flint's chest and his fingers digging in a little.

Flint rolled his eyes, grip on John's chin tightening as he leaned forward and brought their mouths together. It wasn't soft, but neither was it hard. It was sure, steady, everything John needed right now and he sighed, his eyes drifting shut as his mouth opened, his tongue touching Flint's when it traced across his bottom lip.

This had never precisely occurred to him, nor had it ever precisely not occurred to him, but now, sitting here as the sun set, his hands on Flint's bare chest, it didn't even seem odd. It seemed right, like they'd been hurtling toward this for the last eight months and every event had led them here.

Flint pulled away briefly, his eyes scanning over John's face, checking to make sure he was alright. John cracked and eye open and summoned the best glare he could.

“I swear to god, Captain, if you don't fucking get back here I may be forced to hurt you. For the first time in weeks I can't hear myself think, so please, don't stop,” John said, a mixture of annoyed and desperate. Flint smiled.

“I have one condition,” he said and Silver sighed, rolling his eyes as he tilted his cheek against Flint's palm, sighing.

“What is it?” he asked, somewhat warily, but mostly just tiredly.

“I'd prefer it if you used my name,” Flint, smirked. “It's James.”

**Author's Note:**

> We'll just imagine Flint was young enough that smashing in his ribcage didn't have horrible lasting effects. It can give him trouble again when he's 60. *shrug*
> 
> I’m on Tumblr [Beneath The Black Sails](http://www.beneaththeblacksails.tumblr.com)


End file.
